Oh man oh man. That ‘what happens in Vegas’ saying isn’t just a catchy ad line. It’s a RULE, and it is in place for a reason.

That is what I have learned in the two weeks since returning.

Diary confession: I flirted with a boy in Las Vegas. We actually went to a strip club. That is IT. Nothing happened, not even a kiss. (I would tell you if it had. After all, I have no idea who you are, and you could be anyone in the world including my mother, a stalker or a potential client. See? Totally safe.)

Anyway whatever. Nothing happened b/c I asked him whether he had a girlfriend and he said ‘yes.’ I said ‘DAMN’ and that was kind of the end of it. I’m not a homewrecker.

Next day, the texting begins. And continues, all the way back to LA, and thence to New York (where I was the last week…more on that later), and then back to LA again. At first it was rather innocent: i.e. You wore me out last nite…

Hum. that does not look so innocent, now that I read it. But it was. It referred to miles walked and sleep lost, not rigorous athletic sexual activity.

Anyway, I must confess I brought the whole game up a notch, demanding that he come out and meet me the first evening he was back. Not that I actually wanted to see him that badly–I was having drinks w/friends and then going to a show at Spaceland. I was just curious to see what he would do. (Curiosity is one of my major personality traits. I wouldn’t call it a flaw, but it does complicate life sometimes.)

Anyway, he didn’t, but has been fishing and trolling to see what I’m up to ever since. AND has upped the ante beyond fun and risky to downright sleazy by implying that he split with his lady. For 10 days, implying this. Meanwhile I’m in New York, going ehhhh? While my GFs (dating writers, pole dancers, all-round cynics) are like “YEAH RIGHT!” in a Greek chorus fashion.

Back in LA this week, things come to an awkward finish when I discover on his Facebook acct that he is very much part of a twosome, and that we apparently have mutual friends. Right away I message him–The world is too small–and he replies in a friendly way. We shoot the shit for a while. We log off.

He texts me at 9PM w/a couple hours free, wanting to know what I am doing.

What am I, a pay-by-the-hour hooker? I want to say, but don’t.

I say nothing, and continue working on my LA Times column about the strange impulses triggered in men if you take them for a first-date nightcap in a strip club. Coincidentally, a man whom I’d had a similar evening out with two years ago (I think he and I even sat at the same table) had texted me that evening as well, wanting to know whether I could be his date to some big televised event in Las Vegas.

At least that potential sleazy tryst would stay in Vegas. The guy promised me. Still, television is too close to reality for me. I live in Hollywood, what can I say? And even though I write this blog, I am not actually a big proponent of sleazy trysts. Or men who screw around on their ladies. Actually I hate those men.

Back to Mr. LA-via-Vegas. This morning I got a little bitchy via email. And he got a little wounded-innocent, saying perhaps I’d daydreamed the whole thing. At which point I offered to copy-paste our text exchange. At which point he apologized, sarcastically. At which point I turned into Level III Hurricane Lena. (I can go up to Level VI by the way. You should see it. It’s fun…from a distance.)

Anyway, I think after many huffy messages we have worked things out. Mr LV-V-V thinks I am ‘mean’ and I think I am ‘stupid’, but apart from that, we’re good. I hope. And I have learned a valuable lesson, which is that next time I meet a random guy in Vegas, go out dancing and wind up in a strip club, I’ll leave without getting his number. Or his name.